


say nothing's impossible now

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Birds, Crystals, F/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Rimming, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: She wakes up later, well into morning, for real this time. There’s a crow by her feet and a note on her pillow, an unfamiliar scrawl on folded orange paper.The paper is heavy, smooth. “I like you,” it reads. She’s no sooner read it than it turns to flame, burning cold in her fingers until nothing is left, not even a trace of ash.Except. A phone number appears, inked in fuschia on the palm of her hand. That’s Zayn’s magic for you, all enchantment and surprise. She rolls her eyes, but puts the number in her phone. The crow’s not going to tell anyone about the huge smile on her face.





	say nothing's impossible now

**Author's Note:**

> i have no one to blame for this except myself.

“Dance with me,” Jill says, bumping into her a little too hard.

Sticky margarita spills over Gemma’s fingers, trickles down her wrist. It’s all right - she can lick it off, the lime and sweat tart on her tongue.

“Okay,” Gemma says, tossing back the rest of her drink.

Something bouncy comes on as Jill maneuvers them onto the dance floor, where Megan’s waiting.

“Finally,” Megan shouts, drawing them in. “Give us a dance already, will you?” The swell of her stomach looks unearthly in her glittery dark dress, like the surge of a wave before it crests. Jill dips her head into Megan’s neck, possessive and pleased, before spinning her out.

The club is absolutely packed, even in VIP. Fashion week is winding down, and no one has to worry about being proper tomorrow. The bass booms up through the soles of Gemma’s feet, her veins, surging up the bloody channels to her heart. Tonight, being single feels good, like cold snow on a hot neck and an extra drink or three, because who’s counting? She wore the right earrings; she can go all night and not regret it in the morning.

A bloke dancing nearby is pouring yellow smoke from his hands, and it creeps along the floor, licking up against her ankles, making the back of her throat taste like sunshine.

It’s not always like this, since she and Michal split. Some nights solitude hangs heavy, a smothering blanket. Plus it’s February, and nothing good ever happens in February; the days are short, the world is stagnant dirt. But tonight’s going to be good, she can feel it: she’s jet lagged, she’s half-drunk, her feet hurt, even through the soft cocoon of tequila. It’s fucking fantastic.

The song dissolves into something slower, which means another drink is in order.

Megan huffs a sigh. “Time to get off these feet,” she says, looking down at her shoes. Megan’s pretty far along, though not so far along that she can’t see her feet anymore.

“Poor babies,” Gemma pouts.

“Was your idea,” Jill says, though she wraps her arm around Megan and starts leading her from the dance floor, gentle as always.

Spending too much time with the pair of them will give her either an aneurism or a cavity, in her experience, so Gemma peels off to the bar. Margarita’s been her drink for the night, and right now it’s perfect, the crispy salt rim a contrast to her muzzy brain. She’s at that precipice of drunkenness, where everything is soft and lovely, an edge she’d like to balance on for as long as possible. The bartender plops a new drink in front of her, and she’s just reaching for it when there’s a hand on her shoulder.

She tenses automatically. It’s not a woman’s hand, she doesn’t even have to look to know that it’s not her friends, though it disappears when her shoulders get tight.

“Gemma?” Someone is asking her in a voice she doesn’t immediately recognize, that drags at the edges of her brain, calling up soggy chips in the Academy Commons, and all right. She turns around.

If her jaw drops, she can’t be blamed. Zayn’s in front of her, flushed and a bit sweaty and a good five years older than when she saw him last. When _did_ she see him last? At a show, probably, one of the final shows they did together, him and the band - right before he left Academy, and his coven along with it, more proof that nothing good happens in the dregs of winter.

Well. There’s no reason not to be friendly; it wasn’t her heart he broke.

“Hello, you.” She has to half-shout to be heard.

He grins, like he wasn’t sure of her reception. “What are you doing here?” he leans in to ask.

Gemma grabs her drink off the bar, brandishing it in explanation. “Drinking. Dancing. What people do in clubs, I’m told.” She takes a slow drink, staring at him over the rim of her glass.

Zayn looks good. That’s never been a problem, though he’s grown up, now - up, and into himself. But she’s been surrounded by good looking people, covering back to back fashion weeks in NYC and London, so maybe that makes her immune to him, the way he’s standing straight and slouching at the same time, the way his shirt skims over the planes of his arms and chest.

He smiles again, and maybe she’s more affected than she thought. He’s always had a good smile - personal, like. He can be aloof all he wants, until that smile cracks his face.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she asks, when Zayn seems stalled on how to continue.

“Same,” he says. “Just coming in for a drink.”

She scoots over so he can get a spot at the bar. “Busy night.”

“Seems that way. You here with anyone?” he asks, turning to face her, propped up on his elbows at the edge of the bar while he waits for his pint.

“Just some friends.” She waves to the dance floor. “You?”

“Yeah.” He cranes his neck, looking around. “I’ve lost them, though. Special occasion?” He doesn’t sound sad about losing his friends. The bartender slides a glass across, and he half-turns to grab it.

Gemma shakes her head, so her earrings brush against her face; a little clarity swoops in. “Not really. Just work. End of a long week. Being single. You know.” It’s been long enough that it shouldn’t bother her, but it’s still hard to say it sometimes, _being single._

Zayn’s got his drink now, the transaction’s over. He’ll go back to his friends, there’s no need to stay with him. She’s surprised to find herself disappointed, a little. Maybe he is, too.

He touches her elbow and nods towards the sitting area. “Come catch me up?”

There’s nothing to think about, really. It’s not often in life where you run into an old friend at random, if she can call him that. Plus her feet hurt, pinched as they’ve been in ridiculous heels.

“Yeah, okay.” She finds herself nodding, following him over.

What a story it would be, if they got papped here tonight. Although the long story isn’t hers to tell - it’s Harry’s, and Zayn’s. And Louis’, and Liam’s and Niall’s, etc. Gemma was a few years ahead of them at Academy, and separated by degrees; always the older sister, less talented, in the background.

But when Harry and his lot were placed together - a _coven_ , they still called it there, a term so bloody antiquated it had no meaning anymore - no one was prepared for what would happen. The way the five of them, each individually powerful in their own right, would cooperatively become formidable. Music magic wasn’t - still isn’t - uncommon in cooperative groups. But the way it manifested, when they were together; the things they could do with it **.** _A rare gift,_ the teachers said _._ _Once in a generation_. _You could do so much._ And then, _You could do so much more_.

They were kids, in the end, and the asks kept getting bigger. More shows, bigger magic; healing magic, transformative magic. They weren’t all ready for what the world wanted from them. Zayn was the first to walk away, though she knows Harry was thinking of it.

Zayn disappeared after that - from her life anyway, if not from the world at large - although he couldn’t disappear entirely, no matter how hard he tried. It seemed like he was trying pretty hard, sometimes. The rest split up eventually, like most covens do. Not that it matters. They’ll always be tied together. If Gemma closes her eyes, she’ll find her own coven, little lights burning behind her eyelids: Jill and Megan close and bright, Michal farther away. The blank spot where Charlie used to be, before the the car accident.

She always liked Zayn - liked all of them - though it feels a bit like betraying Harry, following Zayn through this crowded club **.**

He stops by a sofa that’s mostly uninhabited, a satiny expanse of plum-colored fabric, and plunks himself down, signaling the end of introspection hour. Her dress is a little less practical, of course. It seems tiny as she sits, pale legs poking out from the gauzy fabric like awkward branches. Zayn takes a drink but doesn’t say anything. Grand.

“So,” Gemma starts. “How are you?” She can make banal small talk with the best of them, especially when she’s half-drunk.

Zayn shrugs and scoots closer. “Good, I guess. Done with tour, getting reacquainted with life off the road.”

She nods but doesn’t have anything to offer. She heard about his show, or _shows_ , more properly, sitting room gigs hosted all over the world; small audiences, intimate settings.

“You...what about you? Are you still writing?”

She’s surprised that he knows about her writing. “I am. It’s why I’m here, in fact.” She waves her hand, encompassing the club.

“Yeah?” He looks interested, but it’s hard to tell.

She soldiers on, anyway. “I’m doing a piece about fashion week. Something…I don’t know. About how participation in fashion has changed, over the past thirty years. How it’s evolved, evolving.”

“That sounds.” He stops, takes a drink of his beer. “Complicated. Interesting. What conclusions have you drawn?”

She laughs. The piece is a jumble, the ideas all smashed together in her mind. It’ll take some time to sort it out, now that the assignment’s over. A while longer yet for the words to fly in from wherever they’ve perched. “None, so far. It’s been mad, this. I just flew in from New York, went right into London. You were here. What’s your take?”

Zayn laughs and puts up his hands, the light glinting dully against his rings. “Need more warning, like. If you’re going to interview me.”

“How much warning?” she asks. It’s a thought she needs to kill right now. She can’t imagine what Harry would say if she quoted Zayn in an article.

Zayn laughs, quiet, mouth twisting slightly before he replies. “Enough to arm myself with cigarettes and an exit strategy. Won’t be a proper interview if I don’t disappear halfway through in a cloud of smoke.”

She almost chokes on her drink. She’s read those interviews, both as a matter of curiosity and critique. They’ve been badly done, for the most part, not even bothering to buck against the authors’ preconceived notions, let alone the juggernaut of public opinion.

“Why do you let them do that?” she settles on, more curious than anything.

“What’s the difference?” He shrugs, swirls his beer in his glass. “They’re going to write what they’re going to write. If I have to do it, at least I can control how much they get.”

It makes sense. She’s no stranger to it, people feeling owed a piece of her, walking into a room and defining her solely by what they already know: Harry Styles’ sister, influencer, writer. Quirky, feminist, minor witch. She’ll never get out from that, no matter how much she accomplishes on her own.

“You could,” she stumbles out. “Could try to change it, you know. You could actually tell your side, if you wanted.”

Zayn laughs again, free and easy, like the drop of ice cubes into a drink. “Gemma. You’re sweet.” She wants to bristle, because she’s not. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t know those people. They don’t know me. And I know -” he stops, searches for words. “I know who’s important, now. And who isn’t.”

A waiter comes around with shot tray, interrupting them. Gemma takes one first, and Zayn follows. She raises her glass up between them. The clear liquid catches the club lights, refracting blue and green through the glasses’ thick sides.

“To people that matter,” she says, looking him in the eye.

“Cheers.” He taps their glasses together.

The liquor is crystalline and fiery, flaming down her throat. The waiter whisks the glasses away, and Zayn changes the subject so smoothly that she doesn’t even notice for a few minutes, like a drink was all he needed to wipe the slate clean.

It’s easy, talking with him, although the glow in her stomach is making it easier. Zayn’s funny, and wry, and unabashedly dorky about the things he loves - all things she likes in a person, if she’s going to admit it to herself. Turns out he’s tactile, too, touching her arm, her knee as they talk. She finds herself laughing until her cheeks ache when he describes a mishap on tour: Zayn broke a guitar string mid-spell and the whole audience turned into mice.

“It was only thirty people, so fixing it wasn’t terrible,” Zayn laughs along with her. “But you should have seen it.”

Another waiter passes by with a tray of shots, this time green and tart-sweet, the exact taste of laughter. She’s wandering into dangerous territory when she watches Zayn lick his lower lip, when she wonders how her laughter would taste in his mouth. One of them has moved closer on the couch, or they both have, and her knees bump into his if she moves just right. He drops his free hand close to the bare skin of her thigh, displacing enough air to make her shiver.

It’s the third round that does it. A new server stops by with yet another tray of shots, the same deep amethyst as the gemstones in Gemma’s earrings, telltale whorls of smoke coming off the surface of the liquid. It’s not alcoholic, but it’s just as dangerous, if it is what she thinks it is. Zayn’s hand is stopped mid-reach, as if he’s come to the same conclusion.

“Is this…?” Gemma asks, looking up the waitress, who gives her an open wink.

“The one and only,” she replies, glancing between them. “For the brave of heart. If you’re brave.”

Zayn’s hand finishes its path to the glass, taking one for himself. He tilts his head, looks at Gemma appraisingly.

Well, she can’t have that. There’s nothing to fear from the future, the tiny glimpse of it they’ll get.

“‘Gone in a swallow,’” she laughs, taking one of her own. The waitress winks at them again and walks away.

The shot glass is cold against her fingertips, and then hot, and she can almost see something swimming in its purple depths. She’s only tried this once, her first year at Academy - scrying was all the rage that year. So her group huddled in Charlie’s room, holding hands, trying not to seem nervous. They were such babies back then; what did they know about anything?

Zayn holds out his free hand, and she threads her fingers into his. “Count of three?” he asks, giving her a squeeze.

“Fair enough. You count.” Gemma’s got just enough time to notice how it tastes, flowers and hairspray - before she’s pulled under.

_She’s lying in bed - her bed, she realizes - bare, spread across the sheets. The air is cool against the naked skin of her chest, thrumming with her heartbeat._

_“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Zayn says, trailing a fingertip from her collarbone to her navel, to the edge of her underwear, shadows licking the tops of his shoulders as he bends down for a kiss._

She opens her eyes, lips tingling. Zayn is staring at her, empty shot glass held close to his mouth. Their fingers are still tangled together, and every part where they’re touching sends a jolt through her skin.

“Shit.” Zayn exhales and lowers the glass. She uses the moment to reclaim her hand.

“Shit,” she agrees.

It’s a possibility, that future - a good possibility, maybe, based on how her body’s reacting. She thinks about the way Zayn looked, intent and focused, the way his voice frayed into softness. She thinks about the way he’s looking at her now, which is mostly the same. The club air prickles up the back of her neck.

Zayn’s just opening his mouth to reply when they’re interrupted.

“There you are!” Out of nowhere, Gemma’s got a lapful of Megan, all curly hair and sparkly dress. Through the curtain of Megan’s hair, she can see Jill smiling broadly.

“Hullo, Zayn,” Jill says, reaching out her arms. Zayn stands to give her a hug; rib-cracking, by the look of it. It lasts a long time, before he drops back down to the sofa.

It's easy to forget how these different parts of her life intersected. How Zayn was part of the group that stayed up all night casting for Jill, in the hospital recovering from surgery. Harry was there, too, Gemma remembers with a pang, though healing spells have never been his particular strong suit. Too subtle, maybe, that kind of magic, though a willing heart goes a long way.

“You promised us dancing.” Megan wriggles around on Gemma’s lap, bringing her back to the moment. “I don’t care if Zayn’s more interesting.”

“I’m not interesting,” Zayn deflects. “And congratulations.” He waves his hand toward Megan’s midsection in explanation.

“You’re definitely drunk, if you’re making unsolicited comments about my family status,” Megan teases. “But I am pretty obviously knocked up.”

“Sick,” he says, dividing his grin between Megan and Jill. “Babies are cool.”

Megan leans over Gemma again, to knock her knuckles against Zayn’s. “Thanks. That’s what people tell us.”

Jill rolls her eyes and reaches out to haul Megan up. “It’s Bananarama, let’s go, let’s go.” She looks at Zayn. “Are you coming?”

Zayn’s looking pretty relaxed, slumped back on the slippery fabric of the lounge sofa. He’s not one for dancing, if Gemma remembers. But she works her way up from the couch, straightening her skirt as she goes.

She’s drunker than she realized, now that she’s up; it’s hard to find her feet for a moment.

“Dance with us,” Gemma says, holding out her hand. He won’t say no - she doesn’t know how she knows it, but she does.

“Don’t really dance,” he protests, shaking his head. It’s a token protest if she’s ever heard one.

“Eye of newt, spider pants,” she starts, pitching her voice low and wiggling her fingertips. Zayn’s openly laughing, despite her sinister tone. Beginner. “You owe me one, so fucking dance.”

He stands up, and Jill and Megan cheer. “What do I owe you for?”

“I can’t remember.” Taking his hand is a little like reaching into fire. “But I’m sure there’s something.”

There’s always a line, when good sense turns into something else. She’s the queen of that line, knowing where it is, precisely, at all times; staying on the other side of it. Tonight, it’s thin as thread, flexible and shifting.

They flail around on the dance floor. Zayn’s not so into it, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed - he would have been, five years ago. She would have been, too. It’s hard not to watch him. Her eyes wander over, she cuts them away; two or three times, she catches him doing the same. She can’t stop thinking about it: Zayn’s finger, trailing down her chest; the way she felt, honest and wanting.

DJs do have precognitive ability, sometimes: the next song is sultry and low, synth hitting her gut like a fist, and Gemma almost laughs out loud. Jill and Megan are hanging all over each other already, like they need an excuse to grope each other in any setting.

“Don’t bail on me now.” Zayn looks at her, challenge written in the tilt of his eyebrow. The dance floor is packed, he’d have to pick his way through the crowd to get back to the bar or the lounge.

And since she’s at the line, anyway, toes right at the edge - and since fashion week is done, and she’s a few drinks in, and Zayn is asking her to slow dance with him in a crowded disco, and some near-future version of them are about to get intimate. Well, she’s going to give it a go. She takes Zayn’s hand, and lets him tug her closer.

It must be a good song, though she doesn’t know it. It hems them in, pushes them closer together. A whole universe of unthought thoughts crowd her head, squawking and asking to breathe.

It must be that kind of night. She’s turned herself around, and Zayn’s hands are steady on her hips as they move together, her back pressed to his front. She can’t see his face, but his exhales hit the back of her neck where her hair’s put up, washing over her in tiny galvanic waves. She lets herself close her eyes, focus on the discrete sensations: Zayn’s hands, hot through her dress. The ache of her feet in these bloody shoes. The liminal thud of the bassline, physical want, fizzing up through her heavy blood. _Murmuration_ , she thinks, leaning into it; leaning further into Zayn. It’s probably better that he can’t see her face, all her typical composure flew out the window once she started grinding against him. She’s not stopping, though; he isn’t, either.

When the song is over, peeling herself away is harder than Gemma wants it to be. She fights to get control of her face as she turns around, though there’s nothing she can do about the color blooming in her cheeks. Zayn doesn’t look much better when she makes herself make eye contact. He’s mussed, and flushed, and not blinking, and he keeps his hands loose on her waist, like he doesn’t want to let go.

The alcohol and music are making her dizzy enough; Zayn’s not helping. He licks his lips, about to speak, and all she can think about are his hands on her bare skin, like a watermark. She shudders, and he catalogues it, eyes going darker.

She needs a minute. “I’m going to the ladies.”

“Okay,” he says, dropping his hands.

She gnaws her bottom lip. “Don’t go.”

He’s still staring at her, line wriggling between his eyebrows. “To the loo?”

“No, I mean.” God, it’s hard to find the words, like digging a key out of a bowl of porridge. “Don’t do that thing, where you disappear into a cloud of smoke.”

Zayn touches her wrist, light as a wing. She swears she can feel the pattern of his fingerprints. “Gonna go have a smoke, maybe,” he says, slowly. “Out on the patio.”

“You shouldn’t smoke.” She’s not sure if it’s an invitation.

“Come find me when you’re done.” He brushes a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll be there.”

The WC’s in a lull, at the moment. There’s plenty of space at the sinks to stand and stare into her own reflection: cheeks flushed, hair trying to slip out of the million pins tacking it in place. Someone’s freshening their lipstick the next sink over, it’s hard not to glance that way - but it’s harder still to keep looking at herself. There’s a truth there, in her big pupils, in the flush crawling up her neck, if she decides to let it out; a story that wants to be told.

Gemma takes her hands out from under the faucet. Like magic, the water stops. There hasn’t been anyone since Michal, there weren’t that many before him. She can count the number of one night stands she’s had without using a single finger. On the other side of the line, she has no idea what happens next. It’s terrifying, it’s exhilarating.

She’s still drunk enough that there’s a three-second delay between opening the door to the outside patio, and feeling the cold air blasting over her. It slips its way around her neck, down the back of her dress, skating over her overheated skin.

There’s a handful of people outside, smoking or talking or snogging in the flickering light of the patio heaters. She can’t find Zayn right away. If he ducked out on her, she will hunt him down; making her stand foolishly out in the winter in just a frock, in stupid shoes that hurt her feet. She spots him, finally, leaned up against the wall of the club - head turned her way, smile on his face like he knows just what she’s thinking. He catches her eye, and it pins her in place.

Zayn pushes himself off the wall and makes his way over. No one seems to notice him, which is good - it’s none of Harry’s business, what she does, but getting noticed won’t make it easier.

“You found me,” he says, hovering a safe distance away.

“It’s cold.” She wraps her arms around herself. “You’re mad, out here with no jacket.”

“Guess you’re mad, too.” He shuffles closer and reaches out carefully, like he’s soothing something wild. He gets his arm around her and walks her closer to one of the patio heaters, bringing out his pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

She doesn’t smoke, but she takes one anyway - it seems fitting. He drops his arm to work the lighter, and it’s almost a relief.

The smoke is restless in her lungs, shooting out in big clouds of vapor and exhaust. She can feel Zayn, full of nervous energy, standing too close and not close enough. It’s a lot - heat on her front, cold at her back, smoke in her mouth, energy between them snapping like a sheet in the wind.

Zayn puts out his cigarette. “You finished?” he asks, gesturing at hers.

“Suppose I am,” she says, though it’s just half-gone. It’s better that she doesn’t finish it. She’s messed up enough, nerves cutting a wide swath through her carefully cultivated buzz.

Zayn plucks the cigarette out of her hand, and brings it to his own mouth, never breaking eye contact. He takes a drag and puts it out, flicking it into the nearest ash can.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks.

She has a flash of what that likely means. Naked skin. Smooth sheets. Zayn’s mouth, on her mouth. Possibly other parts. “Okay,” she says.

He laughs, breaking some of the tension. “Well, if it’s just okay…”

“Fuck you,” she says, “I’m nervous as hell.”

Time speeds up, in that fickle way it has - they barely have time to get their coats before the car is there, exhaust billowing up in the frigid air.

“Yours or mine?” she asks, before he opens the door.

“Whatever works for you.”

She has to think about that. “I don’t…It’s been a long time since I’ve had to decide that, to be honest.”

“Let’s do yours, yeah?” Zayn offers, voice gentle. “Then you can decide if I stay or if I go.”

She nods, and he opens the door, waving her in. The warmth of the car washes over her, instantly soothing.

Zayn keeps his distance on the leather seats while she texts Megan and Jill that she’s leaving. They could have gone home already, the way they were dancing, though Megan’s a bit past getting off in the cleanest stall.

She puts her phone away. The car is mostly quiet, strains of music drifting back from the front seats. Zayn shifts closer to touch her earrings.

“Did you make these?”

“I did,” she says. “It’s amethyst, for hangover protection.” She shifts under his scrutiny, pulling at her skirt where it’s hiked up against her thighs.

Zayn stops her hand. “Leave it,” he says, and his voice is dark molasses.

She’s shy when they get to her flat, like everything else has been for public consumption. But this is it: her home, small but hers; she earned it herself, picked the furniture, the decorations. Probably a bit puritanical for Zayn, though she never worries about her style. She knows she’s got good taste.

“Willkommen to Casa Styles.” She kicks her shoes into the corner with more force than necessary. If she were a different type of witch, her feet would weep audibly in relief.

“Cool. I like it.” He eases out of his jacket before he starts nosing around the flat. There’s not a lot to explore: most of it is open area, kitchen and sitting room and dining area all one big rectangle.

She makes her way into the kitchen; tucked behind the countertop is a good place to watch him wander. “Can I… get you a drink? Or something? Sorry, I’m awful at this.”

Zayn starts circling back, and the closer he gets, the warmer she gets. He shakes his head, smiling at her. “Don’t need a drink. Do you?”  

“Uh.” She probably shouldn’t, if she wants to be able to feel anything - if they’re going to do anything. More than what they’re doing, that is. Which is - “I’m good, actually.”

He’s close now, an arm’s length away. If she knew more science, she’d know about wrinkles in space, the cosmic wrist-flick it took to put them here, together, this night.

“You are good,” Zayn agrees, shifting to lean his hip against the counter, leaving some space between them. “Can I kiss you?”

“No,” she says, over the relentless drum of her pulse. “But can I kiss you?”

He nods and she steps in, until there’s no space left between them at all. His chest is solid under her hand, heart tripping steady under her palm.

Zayn tips her face up, fingertips gentle on her jaw. “It’s been a while for me, too, you know.”

It’s simple, then, to surge up, though her battered toes protest, and graze her lips over his.

It deepens by degrees; she takes her time learning his mouth, the shape and feel of his teeth beneath her tongue, slants her head so she can rub their tongues together. He makes a noise and it shoots straight through her, pooling in the ache that’s starting between her legs.

Zayn drops his mouth against her throat, and the scratch of his beard is both too much and not enough. He soothes where it scrapes her with his lips and tongue, working his way down her neck, across the dip of her collarbone. It’s all she can do to hang on, to wrap a leg around him, so she can fit their hips together. He’s starting to push the strap of her dress aside when she stops him.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting his head so fast she can barely track it, retracting his hands from her hips.

She slides her hand over his mouth. “Bedroom?” she asks. The low rasp of her own voice shocks her, in the quiet kitchen.

He nods beneath her fingers.

In the half-light of her bedroom, everything seems more real and less real, all at once. Her pulse skitters wildly as Zayn moves close again, touching the straps of her dress, slipping his fingers just underneath. “Can I?” he asks.

She can’t trust her voice, so she nods and turns around. He works the zipper down slowly, glazing his fingertips over the inches of her skin, down to the small of her back.

He doesn’t try to slide her dress off when he’s finished with the zip. She turns to face him, grateful for some coverage. “You’re sure?” she asks, running her fingers over the hem of his t-shirt.

“I’m sure,” he gets out, pulling it up and over his head. It’s barely on the floor before he’s kissing her again.

There’s less finesse, this time - their teeth clash, it takes a second to get the right angle. Zayn’s hands are firm on the back of her neck as his mouth works over hers; they drift down to the straps of her dress, and she doesn’t stop him this time, letting the fabric fall, to pool around her waist. It wouldn’t take much to get it off all the way. A shimmy, a twitch of her hips.

Zayn makes his way from her mouth to her neck, from her neck to her shoulders, from her shoulders to her chest, the tops of her breasts.

“All right?” he asks, lifting his head. In the dark of the room, his pupils are huge and endless, lips parted on a breath. She touches the corner of his mouth; if he moved a few centimeters, his lips would graze her nipple.

She shimmies, and the dress falls off the rest of the way. “Yes, please. Are you?” she asks and starts working on his pants.

He laughs. “I’m great,” he says, ignoring the way her hands fumble on the buttons of his trousers. He gives a shimmy himself, and then they’re equally naked, undressed down to pants, shadow painting over the planes and curves they make together.

There’s no non-awkward way to get into bed with someone for the first time. But she’s there, kneeling on top of the duvet, and then so is he, and there’s more kissing. She can’t stop touching him, now that she’s started; like her fingertips are magnets and Zayn’s some kind of element - she doesn’t know what kind, the kind that magnets are drawn to. Iron. Ferrous. Whatever. He’s touching her, too, swallowing her gasps when he palms over her nipples, rolls them delicately between his fingers.

“You have to tell me,” he pants, pulling his mouth away. “What you like.”

“I like that.” She’s sucking air, but wants him back, already; the ache between her legs is getting urgent. Zayn’s heavy against her thigh, under his boxer briefs, and she slips her fingers along the waistband, giving a tug in question.

“Off?” she asks.

He nods so vigorously it gets a laugh out of her. “I will if you will,” he says, diving in for another kiss.

“I will,” she says, against his mouth.

He nudges her back and down, so she’s laid out beneath him, and the sense of deja vu is sudden and overwhelming. _Here we are,_ she thinks. _Here we go._

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know,” Zayn says, trailing a fingertip from her collarbone to navel, to the edge of her underwear.

Gemma’s made of words. She does it for a living, makes a story for everything - a scrap of paper on the pavement, a lost sock in the middle of the road. But she can’t say anything, now; what is it about Zayn that steals her words, makes them scatter like pebbles tossed into the stream? It doesn’t matter. She lifts her hips, since her body knows what to do even if her voice doesn’t, and then she’s naked, cool air on the skin of her inner thighs, the slickness gathered there.

Zayn takes off his pants, as well, and she can’t stop looking at him.

“Shit,” she says. Her voice is shaky, but there’s no use trying to hide it. And she wouldn’t want to - it’s honest, what’s happening between them, even if it is temporary.

“Shit,” Zayn echoes, and lays down next to her.

Gemma rolls onto her side, putting them eye to eye. The tip of Zayn’s prick bumps low on her belly, and she watches her hand wander down his side, to the sharp edge of his hip; watches the swift inhale that hollows out Zayn’s stomach when she wraps her hand around him at last.

“Tell me what you like,” she murmurs, sotto voce.

“Asshole,” he says, like an American, and pushes her onto her back.

“Hey. Not fair.”

“Just, like.” He smooths his hand down the middle of her chest, resting over her galloping heart. “I want to…”

“Want to what?”

“Make you feel good.” He moves his hand lower, and she’s easy for it, dropping her thighs open before he’s even there all the way.

Zayn lays his face onto her shoulder, watching his hand as he starts to touch her, tentative. She feels close already, keyed up and slick, like a twist of his fingers is all it will take.

“This?” Zayn asks, when she starts to shift into his hand, follow the pressure of his fingers with the lift of her hips.

“This,” she pants, hating having to say out loud what she wants. It’s not fair, she knows - but it’s easier to pretend that she wants nothing, that whatever she gets is good enough. The lazy circles he’s making with his fingers are just right, gaining confidence until it’s exactly what she needs - spiraling through her, making bigger and bigger waves, until the waves fill her up, spill over. He stops his hand before she has to push it away.

“All right?” he asks, nuzzling into her neck.

Her legs feel loose and her center is achy and good. She wants his prick inside of her. Promptly.

“Better than.” Gemma nudges his head up off her shoulder, and rolls onto her side to kiss him, stroking her tongue into his mouth, so he can’t mistake what she wants. She fumbles her hand down to touch him, trying to keep their mouths connected.

He’s half-hard, now, but fills up quickly under her touch, groaning when she grips him more firmly. And she can sympathize, all of a sudden - it’s challenging, being with someone new, not knowing what Zayn likes.

He’s shifting his hips in time with her fist, so she must be doing something right. “Ready?” she asks, twisting her hand on the upstroke.

“If I were any more ready, this would be over.” Zayn laughs quietly, making his chest quake against hers, and kisses her again. “You’re unbelievable.”

She sits up enough to get a condom from the bedside table - thank god she’s got some, still - and uses the moment to take stock while Zayn concentrates on rolling it on. She likes him like this, propped on her pillows, sprawled out like he belongs. Even so, nerves bite through her like a million tiny beaks.

He finishes getting the condom on at last and gives a little whoop. It calms her down, somehow, and she can move again.

Reaching out, she runs her fingertip across Zayn’s chest. “You’re bloody gorgeous, you know.”

“Stop.” Zayn grabs her hand and looks away; shy almost, before his eyes return to hers. “How do you want to do this?”

“Let’s just -” she swings her leg over his hips, bracing her hands on either side of his head.

“Okay.” He doesn’t break eye contact with her as he lines himself up, his other hand gripping her hip.

She lowers herself down, slow, watching Zayn’s face to distract herself from the familiar stretch. No matter how many times, it stings for a minute while she adjusts. Zayn waits her out, hands soft on her sides. She dips down to kiss him, slow and deep, before she sits back up.

“Okay,” she says, and starts to move.

 

Gemma wakes up to tapping on the window. Persistent. Loud. Not subtle. She cracks her eye, though she doesn’t really need to. The black flash of wing gives it away - not Harry, thank god. He usually doesn’t do birds.

“Bloody crows,” she drags herself out of bed. Bitter morning air blasts in through the open window, tries to get right into her bones. “Come on, then,” she snaps at the waiting bird. “I’m freezing.”

The crow hops in with absolutely no sense of urgency, pleased as punch to be in her nice warm flat. She crawls back into bed. There are fresh mealworms out and a bowl of fruit; this one’s been here before, it knows the drill. “There’s food in the kitchen,” she mumbles, before she’s out again.

She wakes up later, well into morning, for real this time. There’s a crow by her feet and a note on her pillow, an unfamiliar scrawl on folded orange paper.

The paper is heavy, smooth. “I like you,” it reads. She’s no sooner read it than it turns to flame, burning cold in her fingers until nothing is left, not even a trace of ash.

Except. A phone number appears, inked in fuchsia on the palm of her hand. That’s Zayn’s magic for you, all enchantment and surprise. She rolls her eyes but puts the number in her phone. The crow’s not going to tell anyone about the huge smile on her face.

 

*******

 

It’s okay to be functional, to live on the edge of functional like the brittle tip of a fingernail. She gives herself permission - it’s easier that way, if she acknowledges up front that sometimes the best she can do is scrape herself out of bed, scrape her hair into a ponytail, scrape by. The rest of February ends up like that, despite its auspicious beginning.

And March has just turned out just as shit, so far; today’s not any better. At least the routine’s the same although the office differs day to day: walk to the tube station, high heels, _click clack_. Go into the office. Sit in meetings, _market trends, key demographics. Targeted campaigns._ Draw up designs - more sunglasses, to start; maybe jewelry, if the new line goes well. _We’re anticipating it will go well. May as well start planning the jewelry. No pressure._ Spoiler alert: there’s pressure, filling up the cavern of her chest until it can’t hold anymore.

Go into the publisher’s. Write proposals. Get assignments. Sit in more meetings. Meetings with other writers - all freelance, though she knows most of them well enough. Meetings with Dan, who is an arsehole. She hates Dan’s suit coats over t-shirts and clever shoes and the muttonchop sideburns he’s growing in, and when he suggests for the third time that she be assigned some vapid pop-culture piece, versus the Brexit aftermath study she’s been developing for weeks, her chest gets _tight_ tight, and she has to leave now.

There’s no good way to walk out of a meeting when you’re on the verge of panic. She texts the group chat while she’s still got enough sense for an SOS. Within a minute, her phone starts buzzing on the table. Doing the kind of work they do, calls can be important; everyone always hopes it’s Harry, anyway - or Zayn, once those pictures from the club got leaked - as if Gemma’s got an endless string of celebrities who have nothing better to do than ring her before noon on a Tuesday. So, no one thinks anything of it when she scoops up her phone and gets to her feet.

“Sorry, need to take this.” She nods at Dan, who snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence. “This is Gemma,” she answers, on the way out.

“Of course it’s Gemma.” Jill’s on the other end, practical as ever. “What’s up?”

“Thanks for getting those numbers,” Gemma babbles, grabbing her jacket off the coat rack. It’s ridiculous, no one is listening. The receptionist’s on the phone, the lobby is empty. Nobody followed her out of the meeting. There’s no reason to keep it up.

“Gemma…”

Then she’s past reception, out the door, down the hallway. She bursts through the heavy steel exit doors, the grey March morning exactly as she left it.

“Thanks, Jill. I just needed...” Her pulse is rocketing, ready for takeoff. What did she need? A minute. The sky above her, enough air to breathe, all the way to the bottom of her lungs.

“You’re all right,” Jill says, slow and calm. “Come find me.”

Gemma closes her eyes, and there’s Jill - bright and strong, green grass at the edge of her mind. She finds Megan, sweet anise, flickering not far away - close to Jill, even in their magic. She has to reach farther for Michal’s ochre glow, distant but steady; still comforting, even after everything. Reaches farther yet for the black ache that used to be Charlie.

“Got you,” Gemma says. She takes another breath. “I’m good. Thank you.” She should have worn the howlite bracelet; she should have punched Dan in the face.

Back inside, the meeting’s still going, although someone else is finally talking, thank god. And on the whiteboard, her name’s been moved: taken off Puppy Project, reassigned to MET Gala. Whatever - at least her brother’s not co-chair again. And she likes fashion, it dovetails nicely with her design work.

She texts Harry to tell him, after - once she’s home, in the safety of her own four walls, with a new design sketch down on paper, and the edge of imminent failure has started to dull. He’s still not talking with her, but they’ve graduated from complete pissy silence to text messages, and she’ll take what she can get in this day and age.

 

March picks up speed like it does every year, a furious rush of design meetings meant to keep Gemma on schedule, moving forward, out of her own head. It works.

The new sunglasses line launches on the first of April, just as spring is starting to unfurl. For once, everything seems promising: the press is good, social media is good, her soundbite is good. No pressure.

It’s one of those days, too - the whole world’s in bloom, or at least the park is. She’s sat on a bench feeding the pigeons, and her heart feels big and somehow delicate, filled with petals. She’s got a pair of new glasses on herself - the ones she edged in rhodonite, with the distinctly rose-tinted lenses.

Scattering the rest of the bird seed, she thumbs open her phone. She’s feeling good enough to do it, though that’s not always the case. Her notifications have blown up since the announcement - Instagram’s gone mad, Twitter’s gone mad. And possibly she’s off her trolley, too, or having visions, because Zayn’s slid into her DMs.

He’s sent a selfie, which is approximately seventy-five percent fluffy hair, and twenty-five percent actual face. Perched on that face are a familiar pair of sunglasses - the huge ones, with chalcedony inlay. It’s a good choice for him, she thinks, through the swooping of her heart. She stayed up almost all night, getting those frames correct; that chalcedony was very particular.

She grins down at the phone like an idiot. It’s good that he didn’t post it publicly, though the sales team wouldn’t agree.

 _Sick sunglasses,_ she replies.

Zayn responds straightaway. **I know the designer. She’s all right.**

_Brilliant u mean. Good choice btw_

**Always make good choices**

Shit. It feels like he’s flirting with her, if she didn't know better. She’s terrible at flirting; all those genes went to someone else.

 _Where are u?_ It’s not her business in the slightest, except for the small hope that they’re sharing a coastline.

 **NYC** , he replies.

 _Then how’d u get a pair?_ The new sunglass line won’t be available overseas for another week, at least.

**Have my ways, don’t I?**

She doesn’t have time to respond before his next message comes through.

**Also heard some rumours**

_Me 2. Classic album_ . _1977_. Niall would be proud of her, knowing the year on that.

 **That you’re on MET Gala this year** , he replies, ignoring her.

_I am, yes_

**Cool**

**Having friends over - could come by if u r in town**

Her thumb hovers over the keyboard for a few seconds. Things with Harry have finally returned to normal, or close to it - though she squashes that thought as soon as it surfaces. Harry’s a grown person who’s got nothing to do with this, as she told him when they first rowed. Harry’s got a way of making everything about him; it’s not intentional, more the result of having everything _be_ about him from a formative age. Still.

 _We’ll see,_ she sends back. She has no idea what to expect, covering the gala - and she hasn’t seen Zayn since that night in February, a whole season ago now, though they’ve texted a bit.

Another selfie comes through: same Zayn, same soft light shooting through the tangled swoop of his fringe. He’s taken off the glasses and is pouting dramatically, mouth turned down and all; his eyes look tired, now that she can really see him.

 _ok,_ she says. _I’ll be there_ , and puts her phone away before she gets herself into more trouble.

*******

She expects Zayn to forget - she expects herself to forget, to be honest. Covering the MET Gala is a big deal, and this year’s theme, _Mythical Creatures_ , is bound to be wild. But an invite is delivered directly to her hotel room, more orange paper, folded up like origami this time - a horse, maybe, though it has a fish-like tail. It thrashes in her hand as she unfolds it.

There’s not much typed on the inside. An address. A time. Zayn sketched a little bird in the empty space, with a dialogue bubble that looks like, “See you soon.” It’s hard to tell.

It sounds terrible. Terrible and awkward, now that she’s not riding the high of a successful launch. Happy April Gemma should not have committed to attending, but Happy April Gemma was all about living in the moment, and wasn’t thinking about how she’s not going to know anyone other than Zayn, and hates both making small talk and having to walk into a room and answer questions about other people - one specific person, generally - and never about herself. It’s exhausting.

She turns the invitation over in her hands, sets it on the bedside table. It gives one last little lurch, like it resents being put down. She doesn’t have to decide right now; the party’s not for two days. In the meantime, she has to study up on who’s attending the event proper - work first, after all.

Two days later, Gemma’s cursing both herself and her mum, who brought her up with manners enough to know that if she told someone she’ll be there, then she needs to be there. Not for long, necessarily, but enough to show her face.

The door man at Zayn’s building lets her in, no questions asked, swipes his key card in the lift panel and sends her on her way. “Just let yourself in when you get there,” he says, kindly.

At least she’s alone in the lift, since her heart’s pounding enough to rock the cab, as she ascends the floors that lead to Zayn’s flat. It’s been a long night, already - though her press pass was only for the red carpet, the MET gala isn’t exactly for the faint of heart. Her face aches from smiling, and she’s sure her hair is wilted. The lift cab is lined with mirrors, but she avoids her reflection best she can. She doesn’t need to see her old makeup and pale shoulders to confirm their existence, just as she doesn’t need to see the earth to know it’s round.

The lift door dings and opens, and it takes everything she has to step through the steel panels and into the hallway. Music floats out from behind a door, muffled and disjointed **,** and she’s not ready. Luckily, her feet know what to do; they’ve held her up all night, why should they stop now? And just like that, she’s stood in front of the door, hand hovering over the warm wood grain, not sure if she should knock or twist the handle and let herself in.

She’s saved from having to decide when the door opens in front of her, like magic. There’s a man just inside, who gives her a big smile.

“Hi,” he says, in a broad American accent. “Come on in.” He’s in a costume, of sorts, tawny feathered sleeves crawling up his arms and what looks like a lion’s tail - he flicks it at her in a playful way as she walks past.

Inside, there are people strewn all over, so she can hopefully disappear in a shroud of anonymity, thank god. Everyone’s in some kind of costume, and no one looks at her like she shouldn’t be there.

Zayn appears out of nowhere, before she makes it more than a few steps in. He’s got up as well, in a shiny scaled skirt long enough to trail onto the floor, and a t-shirt with the solar system printed on it. Seeing him again, in person, makes her a little wobbly in the general area between her heart and her knees, which is a large-ish swath, when she thinks about it.

“Finally,” Zayn says. As he gets closer, she can see tiny snakes wound through his hair, which has grown longer than ever. His smile’s almost as brilliant as his skirt.

A matching smile is plastered to her face as she looks around. “Is this like the anti-prom?”

“I suppose,” Zayn laughs. “It’s good to see you.” He reaches out, and she steps into his arms. It’s warm and lovely, exactly the right amount of hug. She starts to relax, incrementally.

“I’m underdressed, I think.” Gemma plucks at the skirt of her dress - black, nondescript, functional. She couldn’t have prepared, since she didn’t know. She’s still in what she wore to the main event earlier, plus flip-flops from her tote.

“You’re not,” Zayn says, touching the row of smooth green stones around her neck. “What’s this for?” His eyes are too knowing by half.

“Bravery,” she laughs. “Can’t you tell?” Still, the aventurine is warm against her collarbone, shoring her up.

He surveys the room. “We’re harmless, I promise.”

“I don’t think so.” Zayn’s never harmless, even if it’s not in the way he means. She looks him up and down. “What are you, anyway?”

He spreads his arms wide. “I’m Echidna. Mother to gorgons.”

“First of your name?” They’ve drifted closer, again, without her noticing. A bit of Zayn’s tail slips over her toes.

He rolls his eyes. “Let me show you around.”

It’s a good thing he does. Zayn’s flat is insane - she expected something loft-ish, airy and open, but it’s the opposite of that, room after room revealing itself as they go on; more rooms than there should be, for the size of the building. It’s done up in a mishmash of styles, interesting pieces that should clash but don’t. It’s hard to get a sense of it, between all the people milling about. His place isn’t exactly crammed, but it’s down to standing room only from what she can tell.

It gets madder as they go. They make their way through a space that’s all ferns, more ferns than Gemma’s seen in her life, to a room that looks like a miniature ballet studio, down to the barre edging the mirrored wall. There’s an actual bar set up, accompanied with catering tables, right in the middle of what was once presumably the dance floor.

She nods at the mirrored wall. “Get a lot of use out of that?”

“I got this place for a steal,” Zayn replies, in a roundabout way. “From an old Polish witch. She used to run a private school, here. The school either went under, or she got too old to run it. Her kids weren’t interested in keeping it up, so…” He shrugs. “It’s pretty sick, the way she magicked it.”

They end up in the kitchen, where most good party things happen, in her experience. It’s less crowded than the rest of the flat, which is a relief. Someone’s sitting on the central island, covered head to toe in glittery black feathers, feeding a tea sandwich to another partygoer. A couple people trickle in and out in an even exchange.

Zayn touches her elbow, and nods at the refrigerator. “Get you a drink?”

“That would be nice, thank you.” Why he’s doing it himself, when he’s got a perfectly good bartender a few rooms back - but it’s alright, she’s more comfortable here.

“What would you like?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, stepping around the island to rummage in his cabinets. He pours them both a few measures - gin, maybe, or rum, and something that fizzes over it, and a few more ingredients that make her feel fancy. There’s a cucumber slice on the bottom of the glass when he hands it to her - gin, then.

“How’ve you been?” Zayn asks, like he’s not hosting a massive party and has all the time in the world for a chinwag.

“Good. Tired. You?”

He leans back against the counter, swirling his drink. “Same.”

Music filters into the kitchen, snatches of conversation from the next room. All paintings, that room, if Gemma remembers correctly.

The bird person on the counter smashes the remaining tea sandwich into their partner’s face with a bark of laughter.

“I like your outfit,” Gemma says, catching their eye. “Reminds me of a friend of mine.”

They beam and tip their drink towards her, feathers catching the kitchen lights. “Cheers!”

Zayn nudges her. “Can give you something to fit the theme, if you like.”

“It’s not - I’m fine. I don’t mind -” she stops to evaluate the level of Zayn’s pout. “That’s unfair, you know.”

“But?” He asks, undeterred. He’s got a look in his eye that she remembers - challenging, almost.

“All right then. Do what you need to do.” She takes a sip of her drink, sharp and cold.

Zayn grins broadly, the level of satisfaction pouring off him dense enough to hold in her hands. “Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

She doubts he will be, once he disappears back into the depths of his flat, the way everyone wants to talk with him. But she stays in the kitchen; it seems like a good place to stay. A few more people wander in and out, and it’s a little awkward, standing there by herself, pretending that she belongs.

Zayn’s back in a matter of minutes, with his free hand full of markers.

“You ready?” he asks, setting the markers down on the counter. He takes her drink out of her hand, and sets it down, too.

“Maybe,” she says. It’s all she can commit to, without knowing what’s next.

He pulls a stool around from the other side of the island and draws it up next to her, patting the top invitingly.

“Your throne awaits.”

She eyes him for a second and reaches for her drink. She takes a healthy swig and climbs up onto the stool, tucking her skirt around her legs as best she can, though Zayn’s seen it all, anyway. Flashing people at a party is more her brother’s style, when it comes down to it - she’d like to keep it that way.

“Ready when you are,” she says.

He smiles and uncaps a marker, dark green, like her necklace.

“Wanted to match, like,” Zayn explains, taking her left arm gently in his free hand, tilting it this way and that. “You good?”

That seems like a loaded question. His fingers on her arm are already too much, firm and warm, and he’s standing close enough that all the hair on her body tries to shift toward him. She nods, anyway; in for a penny, and all. They’ve gathered a few spectators, including her feathered friend, and she can’t back out now.

“No peeking until it’s done,” he warns, and then he starts.

The tip of the marker is cool and soft against the skin of her upper arm. It tickles, terribly, and she fights to stay still. Zayn huffs out a laugh, and the puff of air hits the bend of her neck, makes her hair stand up again.

Bird Person turns on the countertop, swiveling to face Gemma more directly. “Looking good,” they say, with a low whistle.

“That’s quite a compliment, coming from you,” Gemma replies, grateful for the distraction.

“No flirting with the -” Zayn strokes the pen down her arm, a long descent that ends up by the inside of her elbow. “The people. The other people,” he mutters, rotating her arm slightly outward.

She turns to look at him, greatly daring. He’s concentrating, intent on his work. She has to suppress a shiver - she remembers that look, the way he focuses utterly on the details. Zayn works around her elbow, thumb pressed against its sensitive inside while he traces something around the unlovely knob of bone. Will there be no end to his drawing? From this height, she could hook a leg around him, draw him in, and in. She’s getting a bit desperate when he finally pulls back.

“It’s done,” Zayn says, though his hand lingers. “Stay still and let it dry.”  He blows over her arm, cool and slow.

“Unfair.” He knows what he’s doing, absolutely.

Zayn grins, sharp and sweet, and brushes his mouth over the top of her shoulder, light enough it could be nothing, a ghost of breath, a trick of her mind. Before she can say anything, he starts to hum - a weird pulsing sound that slithers through the air between them, and she knows what’s going to happen next.

Someone still gasps when it does.

“You can look, now,” Zayn says, giving her a critical few inches of space.

The drawing - whatever it is, she never got a proper look - has come to life, twisting over her arm. She gets an impression of a human torso, human arms waving and plunging; and fins, lots of fins, trailing down a long tail.

“What is it?” Gemma asks, trying to get a full picture. That doesn’t sound right - it’s not an “it,” somehow. “Who is it?” she tries, instead.

Zayn caps the marker and takes a large swig of her gin concoction. “Let me show you.” He helps her hop off the stool and leads her from the kitchen.

Past the room of paintings, he takes a turn she didn’t notice the first time, and they wind up in yet another room. It must be his bedroom, she realizes, when he flicks the light on. He leaves the door open, and crosses the room, oblivious to the way her heart surges into her mouth.

“There’s a mirror in here,” he says, flipping the light switch in his en-suite.

Zayn stays outside, giving her space as she examines her arm. It’s incredible, what he’s drawn, in such a short period of time, though she doesn’t know exactly who it is. Zayn used all shades of green - the deep green he started with, leaf green, sea green. She’d say it’s a water dragon of some type, if it weren’t for the man’s upper body, the man’s bald head atop the tail. But he is clearly swimming over her arm, and clearly not of the earth. She takes a picture of it, best she can in the mirror.

“Who is it?” she asks again, stepping out of the loo.

Zayn’s waiting for her, fiddling with some books on his end table. “Apalala. He is - he was - a Naga, a serpent king of a river in Pakistan. I forget which one. Born a man, but he prayed to become a dragon after his death.” He steps closer, reaches out to trace a fin. “Flooded the riverbanks every spring, destroying crops, until Buddha came to tame him.”

It occurs to her how close they’re standing, in his bedroom, a few steps from his bed, and how it’s harder to breathe all of a sudden, air turned tacky in her lungs.

“Sounds badass.”

Zayn laughs, though it’s more like an exhale, and drops his hand. “He was.”

He digs a pack of cigarettes out of a concealed pocket in his snake tail skirt.

“Clever. You have pockets in that?”

He shrugs and holds out the pack so she can take one. “It was a big part of the deciding factor for this costume.”

It’s just normal cigarettes, nothing tricky. They leave the bedroom, and she’s not sure if she should be disappointed or relieved. Zayn introduces her to a few more people as they work their way back to the main rooms. A griffin, a Jinn; her personal favorite, a Fresno nightcrawler.

Zayn can’t hide for too long, as the host of the party. He gets pulled away by the caterer almost as soon as they get back to the ballet room, making a face in apology.

It’s all right. She mingles with a few people she met in the kitchen. The gin’s helping her feel a bit loose, a bit good. Or maybe it’s the serpent king on her arm, who seems like he takes no prisoners, staying front and center and staring down anyone who approaches her. She appreciates that.

By the time she finishes her next drink, her second wind is fading. Truthfully, it’s late, and it’s been a long day. Tomorrow’s just as long, though writing’s a different type of work. Thinking about how early she needs to wake up makes her impossibly tired.

She has to wander half the flat before she finds Zayn, but the thought of slipping out without saying anything seems rude. She finds him mid-conversation with a moth creature in the front sitting room and manages to catch his eye. She gives him a wave and nods at the door. He nods back, mouthing something she can’t catch. And then she’s out, through the door, the hallway’s flat lights and quiet buzz such a sharp counterpoint to the party, it’s like relaxing a muscle she didn’t even know was activated.

Apalala swims over her arm when she reaches out to push the lift button. She has no idea how long the enchantment will last, or if it will fade once she’s out of Zayn’s immediate radius.

Behind her, the apartment door clicks open and closed, loud in the quiet hallway. She knows who it’s going to be, suddenly and certainly, but she’s paralyzed - like if she turns, Zayn will turn into a pillar of salt, flake into the carpet.

“Hey, hey.” Zayn fetches up right next to her, and she can finally look. He’s blushing a bit, hands stuffed into his snake skirt pockets. “Just wanted to say goodbye - proper, like.”

His smile turns shy, inexplicably. Despite herself, she remembers the way it tastes; the way his mouth can be lazy and soft, sharp and urgent.

“Good night, Zayn.” She leans up to press a kiss to his cheek.

His hand settles at her waist for a second and falls away. “Good night. Thanks for coming.”

The lift dings, doors lurching open, and it’s time to go.

“Thanks for having me. See you.”

She steps into the cab. Zayn stays until the doors close, fingers rippling in a tiny wave.

The floors light up in opposite order, as she descends the building. The door man lets her out to wait for her car, just as kind as he was earlier - not three hours ago, she realizes. The night air on her toes is cold and wonderful as she waits.

*******

Lots of things happen in early June. Spring ripens, eggs incubate. Megan has the baby, and going for a visit, seeing her and Jill and tiny Flora, makes Gemma feel like she’ll burst with happiness. Harry starts talking to her again, properly, without the pouty edge of the past few months. And Zayn comes back to London, almost on the heels of that reconciliation.

He texts her directly, a few days after he gets back.

 **In town for a stretch,** he sends. **Maybe see you around?**

She stares at the screen for too long, discarding a half-dozen responses, not sure how to say, “I like you and I think you’re interesting.” But in a casual way. No pressure.

 _Love to. Just let me know,_ she settles on.

Otherwise, it’s easy to ignore that he’s in town. Theoretically. She may have spent a solid quarter-hour of a design meeting imagining ways she could wander into him, in the vastness of London.

It was only one of a string of meetings, so hardly critical. And she’s dead busy, moving forward with the jewelry line. The first wave is due to launch in July, and though it’s small-scale, a limited run of pieces, her fingers ache from sketching, cramped as they’ve been around pencils and pens.

Otherwise, it’s been wonderful, working on the jewelry. Learning new stones is always a challenge - not just their shapes, but what they like, the metals they prefer. Fickle. Shifting. Unique to the stone. There’s that fluorite ring, for instance, that wouldn’t be anything else, no matter how she coaxed it. No pendant, no charm. _Ring, or nothing,_ it insisted. She’s just here to listen.

It’s not until mid-June when she manages to meet up with Zayn, who’s still in London for whatever reason; at a jazz club, this time, neutral ground.

Gemma’s never been to this particular venue before, though at one point in her life Soho was her stomping grounds. It’s got a questionable name, the _Pizza Express Jazz Club,_ and the band is not at all what she expected Zayn to go for, mellow and complicated, with an actual clarinetist.

“This is really good,” she says, surprised.

Zayn laughs at her from across their tiny table but doesn’t bother to respond.

“Surprised is all.” She stirs her drink. “It’s lovely.”

The club’s decorated like a fantasy: gentle orb lights drift around the ceiling, and the dance floor’s tiles light up underfoot. The crowd is mostly older and watching the couples dance across the illuminated surface is sweet. She’s more affected than she wants to admit by the romance of it all.

She and Zayn don’t dance, by unspoken mutual agreement.

“What brings you to back to London?” Gemma asks, while the band’s on a break.

“Miss my family, mostly,” he says, shrugging. “I love New York, I do. It’ll still home, but. Don’t need to be there as much, now.” He takes a drink of his beer. She watches him swallow, lick a bit of foam off the top of his lip. He’s got a good mouth; she can understand why it’s so stubborn.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” she says. “Living somewhere else. You don’t realize how much you’ve built your life around your location. Small things. Routines.”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. “Then it’s like. When I’m here, I remember the things I miss when I’m gone. Not just people, like. Places. Smells. The color of the sky. It’s just different, isn’t it?”

There’s nothing she can really add to that. She’s visited places, sometimes long visits, and of course she lives in London now and not Holmes Chapel, but she’s never lived in another country.

“Sold my house here ages ago,” Zayn continues, glancing up from his glass. “Been looking at places here again. A house, maybe. Dunno.”

It’s a dangerous thought, Zayn being around more. Her heart picks up a little, like a dog catching a scent. Zayn’s waiting for her, so she scrapes together a response.

“That might be nice,” she says. “I could get used to seeing your face around.”

It’s good enough for now that they’re here together, friends of sorts, though they’ve gone at it in reverse. All those months ago, when Michal had first left and she felt so damaged, so past the point of ever stitching herself back together, she never would have imagined this, having casual drinks at a casual club with a casual lover - who’s become something more than that. He’s crept up on her like lemon mint; you plant it somewhere, run an errand, and find it ten other places by the time you’ve made it back.

Zayn looks over at her, and smiles, and turns back to the music. Simple, easy. No pressure. She lets loose the breath she’s holding and does the same.

The night’s still young when the band finishes their set. It’s brisk outside, in the way of middle June; the day’s warmth gets sucked back up into the night sky, still holding out on full summer. Zayn’s stuffed his hands into his pocket, either for warmth or as a precursor to leaving.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” Gemma says, awkward where they’re stood on the pavement. The night probably doesn’t have to end yet, but she’s not sure how to stretch it out.

“Or,” Zayn says, like they’re in the middle of two different conversations. “We could go get pie. There’s a place just up the way.” He gestures vaguely with his elbows, somewhere down the street.

“Okay,” she agrees, so quick she’s almost embarrassed.

The diner is close, just as Zayn promised, and borderline trashy, and perfect, with its faded red vinyl seats and functional jukebox.

“How do you know about this place?” She ordered lime pie and it detonates on her tongue, tart and sweet in equal measure.

“I know all kinds of things,” Zayn says, licking meringue off his fork.

“A few too many,” she mutters.

He shoots her a wicked smile but changes the subject. “How is everyone? Your family, I mean.”

“Mum’s fine,” she says, letting the other part of his question hang there for a few seconds. “If you want to ask about Harry, you can ask about him.”

He crams a huge bite of pie in his mouth, instead.

She laughs, in spite of herself. “Nice.”

Zayn takes his time, chewing, swallowing. He empties two creamers into his coffee, stirs; empties two sugar packets in, stirs again. Stirring complete, he takes a loud slurp. When he looks up, he’s got _Pleasant Inquiry_ smeared all over his face.

“So. How’s Harry, then?” he asks, at last. It’s completely ridiculous and also so like something Harry would do; bloody idiots, the both of them.

“He’s fine, as well. Tickety-boo. Flourishing.” She takes a bite of her own pie, as non-sexily as possible. “Could ring him, you know. Look him up, whatever.”

Zayn shrugs. “I’m glad he’s all right. It’s not...he’s easy to keep track of.” He taps his forehead. “I don’t really worry.”

She scrapes the last of her pie off her plate. “Brilliant idea,” she says, pointing her fork at her empty plate. It’s an obvious subject-change, but Zayn won’t belabor it.

“I have another one,” Zayn says. “If you’ll suffer me to show you one more place.”

“Let me guess.” She slides out of the booth. “It’s just up the way.”

“Didn’t know you were a clairvoyant.” Zayn takes one last drink of his coffee and stands, as well.

Claire De Rouen is an all-night bookshop, as the sign touts, located above a book-and-sex shop, which is also open, though they skirt its more obvious pleasures and head up the staircase at the back to the bookstore proper.

“Have you been here?” Zayn asks.

“No. I’ve heard of it, though.”

“I think you’ll like it.” He sounds nervous, like he’s not sure.

He needn’t have worried. Stepping into the store is almost like stepping into a dream world. It’s brightly lit, despite the dense middle of night, and the tall white shelves stretch to the high ceiling.

“They specialize in photography and fashion books,” Zayn says, pulling a hardcover off the shelf at random.

It’s a Diane Arbus volume, full page duotones of her photographs.

“Oh my god,” Gemma says, stroking the page.

They wander separately for a while, until Gemma spies an Iris Apfel book she’s been coveting. Zayn discovers her eventually, sitting on the floor of the bookstore, paging through it.

“Find a winner?” he asks, squatting down to look over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. “I did.” In every possible way, it seems obvious.

She buys it, of course, a heavy weight in its plastic sack, dangling from her wrist. She could have had it shipped to her flat, but that seemed like a ridiculous bother.

“Thank you,” she says, when they emerge out of the other bookstore, back onto the pavement. It’s well past midnight, though the streets are not exactly vacant.

Zayn smiles widely, tired though he is. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He sings a few bars out of nowhere, notes rippling out of his mouth, and the book bag shifts on her wrist. She watches as little wings form out of the extra plastic, lifting it up.

“You didn’t - thank you. Again.” The bag is lighter now, aided by its wings; the plastic stops cutting into her wrist.

“I’m hungry.” Zayn touches his stomach, avoiding the question in her eyes. “One more stop?”

“If you insist.”

“Cool.” Zayn lights up, like he thought she was going to decline. Like all night long, she hasn’t been looking for an excuse to keep going.

“Let me guess,” Gemma starts. “You know a place.”

“I do,” he says. “It’s just a few blocks that way.” He holds out his hand and she takes it, twines their fingers together.

They start walking again, bag flying on her wrist, heart flying in her chest.

The sun’s just dissolving the night when they make it back to Gemma’s flat. She should be tired, but she’s filled with the strange elation of too little sleep and too many endorphins.

They slow as they reach the entrance to her building. In the breaking day, the pavement glitters. Her hand is still threaded with Zayn’s - it made sense, in the middle of the night; now it seems bold as brass. She should maybe not be blushing about holding hands with a man who’s had his tongue on her private parts, but.

Zayn yawns, and blinks when a bird swoops down between them. It’s a nightjar, and it’s very excited.

“Forget about that, sometimes,” he says, watching it flit around Gemma’s shoulders.

“It found a patch of moths three streets down,” she explains. “It’s been a big night.” The bird flies away.

He’s staring at her, full of wonder. Something in his eyes makes her stomach flutter just like the bird’s wings. Zayn yawns again, breaking the moment.

“You can sleep here, if you want,” she says, suddenly shy.

Zayn takes a step closer. The early sun turns his eyes to warm amber, same as her bracelet. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“No?” She’s aiming for nonchalant, but her stomach’s not on the same page, flipping around like a beached fish.

He leans in, runs a strand of her hair through his fingers. “Can I - “

She swallows, though her mouth’s gone dry. “Think so.”

His lips are soft and just right, fitting to hers for a moment before he pulls back. It’s embarrassing how it makes her lips tingle, but Zayn’s touching his own mouth like it’s happening to him, too.

They freeze there for a minute. It’s quiet on the street - a stray car, a lone jogger the only sign that they’re not alone in the world. Gemma puts a hand on the back of his neck and brings him in again, and again. He cradles her face and licks his way slowly into her mouth, pouring himself into the kiss. It feels like the best, new thing and also like something she’s been waiting on for ages, and _want_ pours into her like smoke.

Zayn pulls back, breathing hard. “Gemma.”

“Zayn,” she deadpans. She’s worked up enough that there’s no point being cheeky, but she has some standards, after all.

He presses his forehead against hers, hand still cupped around her face. “I like you, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She nods, best she can. “I like you, too.”

“That’s good.” He exhales explosively, and it washes over the top of her lip. “But I’m gonna go home.”

She gets it, but that weird codependency of staying up with someone all night is kicking into gear; she’s going to miss him. “Ring me when you wake up.”

“All right.” He reaches out again - for a hug, this time, warm and long.

He waits for her to go inside, so she does. She’s in the lift, on the way to her floor, when the shopping bag sags in her hand; the spell is gone.

*******

Gemma’s hands ache as she turns the final wire on a bracelet. It’s not for anything in particular, just to keep herself busy. If she doesn’t stay busy, doesn’t know what she’ll do - her skin already feels too tight or too loose, she’s not sure which, but she knows it doesn’t fit.

Her jewelry line launches in three days - early July, peak summer. Enough to dovetail into the sunglasses line, the marketers say; ride the momentum into the new product launch. The pieces are done, out of her hands. It’s up to someone else now to market them, make them sell.

It’s a relief. It’s terrible. It’s a mess, the push and pull of it - wanting to be done, wanting people to love her work. Worrying that they won’t. Worrying about the pieces, too, so much like small friends she’s sending out into the world. It’s different to the glasses, somehow - more personal, more work.

But for now, Gemma’s got a few days off - of everything, writing included - before she has to be anywhere. If the jewelry does well, she might have to give an interview, though she might as well write up her own. Until then, she doesn’t have to talk to anyone, about anything.

She spends the whole day in silence. When’s the last time she went sixteen hours and talked to no one? It’s delicious, like sinking to the bottom of a lake. If she could have been Harry, and their powers were flipped, she’d have done that, transformed into something aquatic; an oyster, maybe, living in the shallows’ filtered light, bent towards the serious work of pearling a stone.

She and Harry can’t change places, and she wouldn’t, anyway. Bit of a bother, being a world-famous shape changer and songwriter. So she queues up a show on Netflix, after lunch. There’s no one here to judge her if that’s all she does this afternoon.

Her phone pings: the marketing firm, a familiar notification. Final mockups of the marketing photos for her pieces. They’ve outdone themselves, it’s perfect - there’s the fuchsite ring, veined and full of attitude. The labradorite earrings, mystical and sweet. It’s perfect, but she can’t look at it. It’s too much.

She texts back a response. _Looks brilliant. Great work!_ and tucks her phone under the sofa cushion. From here, the vibrations are a long way off, nothing she needs to worry about.

Gemma’s got a conference call in the morning, and it’s hard. It’s hard to get out of bed, pull herself from the soft heap of duvet. The call is mostly marketing and final details, so at least she doesn’t have to participate much, though they want to keep her involved. She appreciates that, in a distant way, sipping at her coffee. One day down, two more to go.

“Gemma,” Marion says, like she hasn’t been listening. “Do you mind giving an interview?”

“I don’t mind, I guess,” she lies. She tries to focus, get her hands around the conversation. It runs through her fingers like sand, no matter what she tries.

The call is fairly short, as conference calls go. Her bed’s calling her, through her open bedroom door, though she’s up and caffeinated, and should try to get some work done. She sits at her work table, turning the stones over with her hands. It’s pointless. The crystals lie mute on her table, no secrets to uncover. Gemma can’t blame them. She wouldn’t talk to herself either, the company she makes right now.

The day passes. She tries to nap, mid-day, but she can’t sleep. Every time she starts to drift off, her phone buzzes; she doesn’t want to look at it, but she can’t hide it again, either. It’s just going to be one of those days, where she’s filled with energy like a raw river, harnessed only to spin the useless water wheel of her brain. She’s good at that, churning out anxiety for no purpose. It’s her real specialty, though there’s no magic in it.

Zayn texts her after an impressive dinner of salted peanuts and Jaffa cakes. She can’t be arsed to cook.

**Ready for the big launch?**

_Not really_ , she types and sends, too fast to even think it over.

**Is everything ok???**

For once, she looks for reasons to put him off. She doesn’t want to see anyone until after the launch, when her fate is sealed, and she can move on. He doesn’t need her misery.

_Just a bit poorly_

It’s not a lie. It’s not the full truth, either, but it’s close enough she doesn’t feel bad about it.

 **get better** ☹️

 _thanks,_ she replies. It seems a little sterile, and she doesn’t mean it that way. _see u soon_

**☹️☹️☹️ Let me know if u need anything**

_Will do ❤️_

 

‘Better’ isn’t ready to show its face the next day. Getting out of bed is a major victory. It’s hard to do more than the minimum of functional, so she doesn’t try. It’s a rhythm she knows: Ponytail. Joggers. Rinse. Repeat. She finds the black tourmaline; the clink of the bracelets is soothing but doesn’t do much for her, beyond the small music it makes. There’s one day left, just one day. Her phone has blown up with notifications; she’ll check them later.

The day is a waste, for the most part. When she can’t sit on the couch, she prowls the flat. When she can’t prowl the flat, she tries the balcony. When she can’t stand the balcony, she picks up a book. She reads for a few hours and takes in almost nothing.

Her phone makes it back into her hand somehow, though she’s been trying to avoid it. She’s got a missed call from Marion - just one - and from her mum. It seems like too much effort to ring either of them back, for different reasons.

She’s got a handful of messages from other people: Harry, the group chat. Jill’s sent a picture of little Flora, tiny fist raised in some type of salute; motherhood looks good on her.

Zayn’s also texted her at some point, a soup emoji and a simple message: **hope you’re feeling better.**

He’s been an unexpected gift, this year, a thing she wasn’t looking for but received, regardless. And he deserves better, from her - deserves bravery, at least. _Tell the truth_ , her therapist used to advise her. _To yourself. To other people as you can stand it. Don’t decide for them, what’s too much; let them decide for themselves._  And they haven’t talked about it, but Zayn’s own struggles have been public enough.

So, she texts him back, though her hands are shaking.

_Not really better._

_It’s a brain thing._

**come over?** He responds right away, so she doesn’t have time to freak out about it.

 _I don’t know_ , she says, still being honest.

There’s no point in not picking up when Zayn rings a moment later. His voice trips out of the phone, warm and too much, too big for the tiny device it comes through, settling something in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m making tea,” he says, without preamble. “You’re missing out.”

“I like my couch,” Gemma says, though she’s perched right on its edge at the moment.

“I have a couch. It’s nice.”

A hundred reasons for putting him off spiral through her. It’s all the same voice, no matter how it disguises itself. “All right,” she says, exhaling.

“I’ll send you a car,” he says. “Since I’m tending the stove.”

“I’m not ready.” It’s a feeble excuse, and she knows it.

“Gemma.” He shifts the phone, so his breath whooshes through the tiny speaker. “Don’t worry about it. Bring a change, if you feel like staying over.”

It’s a lot to unpack, that invitation. How is she supposed to know, if she’ll feel like staying over? It’s impossible to think about being anything other than an imposition, but she can’t continue as she has been.

“Okay,” she says, at last.

“See you soon.” He rings off, not waiting for her response - clever. She knows enough marketing to recognize an assumptive close when she hears it.

With the decision made, it becomes easy. She needs to leave; suddenly, terribly. She can’t be in the walls of her flat anymore. She can’t. Waiting for the car is torture. She tries to stay busy, throwing some things into her tote, just in case. Straightening up is more than she can manage, though she bins some rubbish, pulls the duvet over her bed so it looks neater, waters her plant - she’s always overwatering it, it clings doggedly to life regardless.

The door buzzes before she’s run out of things to do; the driver’s here, and it’s time to go.

Zayn’s occupying a house in Southall, and he’s waiting at the front door, in basketball shorts and what appear to be wool-lined slippers. He’s never seemed less intimidating.

“Hello,” she says. It lacks creativity, but it does the job.

“Welcome.” He smiles and opens the door wider, to let her in.

He opens his arms, too, once she’s over the threshold, and she steps into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Zayn sighs and pulls her closer. Whatever he’s making for tea permeates the whole house.

“Hungry?” he asks, like he can read her mind. “Dinner will be done in a bit. It’s just simmering, now.”

“It smells incredible.” She hasn’t made a proper meal in three days. Thankfully, her ability to survive on snack foods is still intact.

Afternoon light streams in through a large bay window in the front room; it’s lovely, but sparsely furnished. Of course it is - he can’t have had any time to settle in. “Have you bought this, then?”

It’s a terribly forward question, she realizes as soon as it leaves her mouth. Words only go out though, that’s part of what makes them tricky.

Zayn shakes his head, unperturbed. “Not yet. Just renting for now, see how I like it. Could do, though. They said I can make an offer at any time, if I want. Come see.”

Zayn shows her around the house, keeping up an easy stream of chatter the entire time - what his family’s been up to, a new comic shop he discovered in the neighborhood, a song he’s writing. Writing’s coming easier, now that he’s back in London.

They eat, eventually. Out in the garden, on the house's - Zayn’s - patio. It’s a beautiful summer evening. Being outside, under the open sky, starts to soothe something, the irritated end of a nerve. Her phone is buzzing relentlessly, so she turns it face down on the table.

Zayn lifts an eyebrow. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says. He stares at her. “Maybe. Not yet. It’s the launch. Can we just – “

“Tell me about these birds,” he says, instead. “I want to get to know them.”

It’s a good ask. For the middle of the city, Zayn’s got a lot of birds in his garden.

“That one’s a European stonechat,” she points out. It hops closer, obligingly, its little orange breast catching the early evening sun.

They pass some time that way. Once she starts talking to them, several birds come popping over, to Zayn’s amazement. He shouldn’t be surprised - songbirds are always chatty, and a bit show-boaty. When Zayn excuses himself for a minute, a few of them get bold enough to light on her chair. _It’s a lovely day, lovely day, lovely day,_  they want her to know. She wouldn’t have agreed with them, a few hours ago - but it is a lovely day, the sun softening into evening.

Zayn comes back outside, and the birds scatter.

“Sorry,” he says. He hands her a tall glass, filled with ice and orange-ish liquid. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers, taking a sip of his own. “I’ll never live it down.”

Something heavenly drifts off the surface of the liquid, reminding her of good dreams, the deep languor of just waking up.

“Is that Trisha’s brew?”

Zayn plops down next to her at the patio table. “It is. Bit sacrilegious, drinking it this way.”

It’s legendary, Trisha’s tea. Harry wouldn’t have made it through the first year of Academy without it. Gemma’s never had it iced the American way, and it’s a curious experience; but it has the same effect, cold or hot - it’s profoundly relaxing, down to the red marrow of her bones.

“So,” Zayn continues. “How many messages do you have?”

“Who knows?” she asks, thumbing open her phone. The tips of her fingers are cold from the glass, a nice contrast in the warm evening.

He nudges his knee against hers. “Where do you want to start, then?”

“I don’t follow.”

Zayn reaches out, traces a cool finger against her upper arm. The same place where Apalala lived, all those months ago. It makes her shiver now, just like it did then.

“I get like that too, you know. Stuck in a bad place, like. But I learned a trick from Gigi, a long time ago.” He slips the phone out of her hand and spins it on his palm.

“What’s the trick?” she asks.

“Gigi used to get first look. Not on everything - just the big shit, mostly. So she could tell me if it was bad or not, what I could expect. It doesn’t change anything, right? But it’s easier, having someone in it with you. Getting mad on your behalf. Standing up for you. Takes trust, though.” He holds the phone, screen facing her so she can see the thread of notifications.

She unlocks it with her thumb. “Have at it.”

“I won’t look at the personal shit, I promise.” He flips the phone over and starts going through it.

He takes his time, scrolling through texts and emails. It requires incredible trust, she finds; the instinct to grab it back is strong enough that she has to sit on her hands.

“There’s nothing bad, Gemma. Just people sharing their excitement.” He keeps reading, a smile flickering over his face. “These pieces are fucking incredible.” He looks up, finally, eyes gentle. “They just want to know where you are. They’re worried that they haven’t heard from you.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath and reaches for the phone, so she can scroll through, herself. What Zayn’s said is correct - there’s been no disaster, everything is all go for tomorrow, ten a.m. sharp. “What should I say?” She feels seventeen again, asking her mum for advice.

Zayn shrugs and takes a drink of his tea. “Tell them you dropped your phone and had to get it fixed. Just be like -” he shifts his voice up to an impossibly high register. “ _‘Ta, everything looks grand, broke me phone, just now seeing this. Excited for tomorrow!_ ’”

She laughs - a real laugh, finally. “Nice girl voice.” But she sends the texts, even though Zayn’s ridiculous, adding extra exclamation points for emphasis.

The rest of the night unfolds like one of Zayn’s fancy party invitations. After tea, they go for a stroll through Zayn’s corner of Southall. He’s at home, here, already, and permanent placement seems like a foregone conclusion. When they get back, Zayn puts on a movie. It’s a proper domestic scene, cuddled up on his sofa, sharing a blanket.

She’s tired, after their walk, and the emotional chaos of the past few days.

“You’re staying, right?” Zayn sounds vulnerable, unsure.

“If it’s okay.” She’s shy herself. What a mess they are, the two of them.

Zayn spreads out an arm to make space for her. “Come here,” he says.

She takes the invitation, crowding close to settle against his chest. The slow pound and gurgle of his heart is a lullaby.

Gemma’s phone wakes them both in the morning, buzzing like a hummingbird. She feels soft and gooey, like she’s been poured into Zayn’s bed and left to cool. She stretches her legs, reveling in the smooth sheets against her bare skin.

Zayn groans and rolls out of bed. “Let me make some coffee.” He tosses her phone over from its place on his chest of drawers.

She glances down at the seeming hundreds of notifications that have popped up while they were sleeping. It’s stressful, but only vaguely, like the stress is lurking outside of several layers of cotton wool.

“It can wait, yeah?” He stops to look at her, on his way to the kitchen. Being rumpled with sleep makes him look even better, somehow.

“For a bit,” she concedes. It can’t wait too long - she slept later than she wanted, though it’s only half seven. They’ve set a conference call for nine o’clock, to square away the final details before the official launch at ten.

She uses the loo while Zayn’s in the kitchen, grateful for a few moments of privacy. She’s still topsy-turvy from waking up next to him, though she walks steadily enough to and from the toilet. It’s a big, big, big day - she feels ready for it, though. Not perfect, not entirely at ease. But ready.

Zayn shows up just as she’s settling back on the bed, perched awkward on the edge like a half-thought. He smiles, like he’s pleased to find her still there. “Coffee will be ready in a few. Gonna hop in the shower quick, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she says.

He disappears into the en-suite, and she hears the water start. She hefts her phone in her hand. She could take this time to start getting caught up, get ready for the call at nine. Or. She takes a long breath, drawing the air all way day down to the bottom of her lungs; it’s now or never.

Zayn’s left the door partly open, and she knocks on the door frame to get his attention.

“All right?” he asks, voice echoey in the loo.

“Can I come in?”

His body is a blur behind the textured glass, and it makes her heart go catawampus. It feels good to be scared for the right reasons, for once.

“Yeah, sure.”

She walks up to the shower door. The glass is cool against her knuckles when she knocks again.

“Alright?” he asks, and she can hear the laugh in his voice.

“Can I come in?” she asks again, teeth pressing into her lip. Bless the pounding water, masking the uncertainty beneath her words.

He cracks the door a centimeter. “Door’s open.”

Fast, before she can overthink it, she pulls the hem of her shirt over her head. She steps out of her underwear, and into the shower. Zayn’s moved back to give her room, standing at the outer edge of the spray.

It’s a normal shower - no jets of water everywhere - though it’s got one of those nice rainfall shower heads. She’s got to focus on the practical details; seeing Zayn all bare and covered with water is making her a bit swoony. She keeps her eyes resolutely above his waist.

“Thought it would be fancier, your shower,” she says, as he takes a step closer.

“Okay.” He suppresses a smile and opens his mouth in a familiar way.

“Don’t - you - “ she starts, reaching out to whack him in the chest.

It’s too late. Zayn sings a bar, trapping her hand against his chest, and the water steams up around them, billowing up like a living thing. All types of shapes form out of it, things she can only see out of the corner of her eye. A fox, a tree. A little bird, fluttering past.

“Is this better?” He takes another step, so they’re both fully under the spray. A smile floods his face like light piercing a foggy morning.

It hits her heart the same way. It’s mad to think that she ever didn’t realize, that she thought it would be one night between them, story over. The worlds snarl up, make a lump in her throat.

“Come here,” she says, swallowing around it. “Let me wash your hair.”

She takes her time, washing his hair, his shoulders, the top of his back. Zayn’s as gentle and playful in this as he is with everything, and it feels like one of the most intimate things she’s ever done. His hands are like heaven on her scalp, when he returns the favor.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she groans, as he works his fingers down the muscles of her neck. “But you could’ve had a future in this.”

He snorts, moving her fully under the spray to rinse. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not that kind of bloke. Letting everyone in my shower, like.”

She blinks the water out of her eyes and puts her hands on his chest, the slippery smooth skin there. Zayn watches her face, careful - he’s always being careful with her. She appreciates it, the line he’s built; after all, she is the queen of drawing lines, of knowing her relationship to the line at all times. She wants to erase his, all of a sudden, wipe it out with a magic eraser.

Gemma’s magic doesn’t work that way. When it comes down to it, she’s only got herself. She hopes it’s enough. Zayn pushes the hair out of her face, waiting.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, like they’re standing in a nightclub in Mayfair.

“Your place or mine?” He plays along.

“I don’t care,” she says, laughter bubbling up in her chest. “Whatever’s closer.”

“In that case.” Zayn shuts the water off. The spell keeps going, though the steam stampedes out when he opens the shower door. Zayn steps out first, admires the back of his body.

Then she’s out, too, shivering in the cooler air. Zayn tucks a towel around her, fingers at the top of her chest. She reaches up to bring his head down and kisses him. It’s the kind of kiss that keeps going, once it’s started, gives them momentum.

They fall onto his bed in a tangle of lips and limbs and towels. Gemma ends up on top and gets her legs properly around him. She kisses him, and kisses him, and it’s satisfying, all the way down to her toenails. Zayn runs his hands over the bare skin of her back, to the bottom of her spine; still gentle, still polite.

Gemma’s got no politeness left. She wants to take him apart and put him back together, like he’s done for her. She pulls away from his mouth, focusing on the spot behind his ear that she remembers, the sensitive edge of his neck. His fingers dig into her back as she works her way down to his chest.

“Is this okay?” she asks, lifting up to look at him.

He looks like it’s okay, flushed and heavy lidded, bringing his hands around to hover at the sides of her breasts.

“Is this?” he asks, and she wants those hands on her. If she arched her back right now, let him take over, she knows how good it would feel.

“Yes,” she says, “but it’s my turn right now.”

Zayn’s got a ticklish spot just above his navel, and at the soft spot beneath the shelf of his ribs, and the way he jerks against her hands and mouth makes her feel powerful. She keeps making her way down.

“Jesus. Gemma -”

She licks a stripe up the shaft of his knob, and he actually whimpers, fingers twisting in the sheets. She tongues around his head for a few seconds, learning the taste and feel of him, before reaching down to cup his balls.

“Is this okay,” she asks, rolling them carefully. She wants to know all of him, every noise he makes, every flick of expression across his face.

“Yeah,” Zayn gets out.

She jacks him loosely with her free hand and watches his face while she moves her hand off his balls to the area just behind, brushing lightly with a fingertip. His eyes get wider, but he nods a bit, best he can on the pillow.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Feels good.”

“I want…” she trails her finger lower, stopping just shy of his hole. He’s watching her, waiting. She’s inexplicably shy - as shy as she can be, with her finger edging up on his arse. “That’s what I want. To make you feel good. Like you do me.”

Zayn closes his eyes and draws in a breath. “Come here,” he says, and opens his eyes again.

Obliging, she moves back up. Zayn pulls her in for a kiss, deep and slow. When he lets her go, he cradles her face for a long moment. At this angle, the way she’s perched over him, it wouldn’t be hard to line herself up, sink down on him. But that’s not what she wants - not right now, anyway.

“You don’t need to.” Zayn strokes her cheek with his thumb.

“But I can, if I want to?” she asks. “Just clarifying.”

“Do what you want,” he says, dropping his arms back down on the bed. “I’m all yours.”

She ignores the full weight of his statement for now. Moving back, she settles between his legs to get her mouth on his dick again. Not long - just enough to get reoriented. More confident, she tucks a hand between his legs, tracing over the inside of his thigh, and lower, lazily making her way to that ring of muscle.

Gemma rubs a finger over him. He jerks under her hand but pulls his knees up. It’s one of the sexiest things she’s ever seen.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says. She sucks a kiss on the inside of his thigh and pushes his legs a little farther apart. They go easily.

“Please, don’t,” Zayn says. It’s all the cue she needs.

She traces his rim again with her finger before replacing her finger with her tongue. Zayn makes a strangled noise, and his thighs tighten around her head for a second. She pauses, waiting for him to give her the green light. She’s only done this a few times, and it’s - not glamorous, maybe, but it’s real, and powerful, in its own way.

“Keep going,” Zayn says, and his voice sounds like he’s scraping it deep out of his chest.

So she keeps going, learning the sounds he makes when she reaches up to get a hand around him, loosely wanking; when she eases the tip of her tongue inside his tight ring of muscle. He’s thrusting up minutely, into her loose grasp on his knob, and trying to stay still at the same time.

“Gemma -” He’s chanting now, under his breath so she can’t quite catch it, though it sounds like the First Year Fundamentals primer, if she had to guess, mixed with her name.

She moves her mouth back up to his cock, sucking kisses from the base to the tip. “Hey,” she says, checking in. His chest is flushed and sweaty; she’s never felt calmer. She moves a finger back between his legs, where he’s slick with her spit.

“Shit,” he breathes, and nods again.  

He’s tight and hot around her finger, and after a few tries she finds the spot she knows, and Zayn keens and goes taut underneath her. His eyes snap open, in time to see her take his prick back in her mouth, timing the stroke of her tongue to the stroke of her finger - it’s too complicated to do better than that. Getting both things going at once is an accomplishment, and before much more can happen - before her jaw can even properly ache - he puts his hand on her face. She slows for a second.

“I’m -” he says. “Don’t wanna -”

She rolls her eyes; she’s had her tongue in his arse and he’s worried about finishing. But she pulls off, since that’s what he wants, and watches him while she jacks him, and he watches her right back, and it’s so intense she might explode. She presses on that spot inside of him, and a moment later, Zayn gives a strangled shout and comes over her hand.

He trembles for a little bit, breath shuddering in and out, and clenches around her finger when she pulls it out, wiping her hands on the still-damp towel beneath her knees.

“Why are you so far away?” Zayn asks, reaching for her.

She scoots up the bed to lay down next to him. He nuzzles into her immediately, still breathing hard, and nudges his mouth against hers. He can’t manage much more than to breathe into her, rubbing his lips lazily over her mouth, her face.

“Your turn,” he says, pulling back.

Her phone alarm goes off again, the quarter-hour warning. “Can’t,” she says, sitting up. “I’ve a conference call at nine.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, though he stays sprawled on the bed, watching her as she gets up and pulls on some clothes.

Everything’s hopelessly wrinkled, crammed in her tote like it was. It doesn’t matter; there’s no one else to see her at the moment.

“I’ve got a real phone in the guest room you can use if you want.”

“Thanks,” she says, bending down to give him a kiss. His mouth clings to hers, it’s hard to pull away. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Get a cup of coffee, at least,” he says, rolling onto his side. He looks a minute or two from falling back asleep.

It’s a nice thought: taking the conference call and coming back to Zayn in bed, sheets still warm and smelling of him. Compared to the alternative of going mad with nerves, it’s an easy choice. She makes her way down to the kitchen and helps herself to some coffee. She doesn’t need his fancy conference phone, just her own, but the guest room seems as good a place as any to take the call. She logs in right as it begins.

As predicted, it’s a short meeting. Marion’s checking off the boxes in a tizzy of last-minute preparation, but it’s a well-oiled machine. Posts on social are ready to go, and Gemma doesn’t have to do even that - her publicist has total control of all launch-related posts, “to ensure a consistent look and feel.” Then the call’s over, and she’s got nothing to do but wait.

When they were little, and Harry was first learning the shapes he could take, their mum found a collection of pinned butterflies at the flea market. It was beautiful and macabre, like so many things, and they spent the summer learning those butterflies, Harry moving in and out of insect form at the blink of an eye.

Perched here, on Zayn’s guest room bed, it’s as if all those butterflies have come back to life, agitating the air inside her chest and stomach with their fragile, patterned wings. There’s nothing she can do about it. She’s got three-quarters of an hour until the launch goes live and while it’s hard to believe that the past few months of design and preparation are about to be over, she’s ready for whatever’s next.

Zayn’s not in bed when she makes her way back to his bedroom; he’s not anywhere. Though he picked up the towels, the sheets are still a mess, a reminder of the way the morning started.

She finds him at last, downstairs in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl one-handed.

“Show off,” she says, to his back.

He turns and gives her a half-smile, setting the next egg down on the counter. “How was it?”

“All’s well that ends well, as they say.” She wanders closer. Zayn’s hair is a disaster, twisted every which way after their morning activities. He’s wearing a faded pink shirt that pretty obviously belonged to someone else at some point and pokemon pyjama pants, and he’s never looked better to her.

“But it’s good?” he prompts.

“It’s good.”

He turns back to his bowl. “I hope you like omelettes.”

“I do, but. Not sure if my stomach’s up for it, honestly.”

Zayn frowns a little, whisking the eggs together. “You have to eat something, though.”

She pushes a hand against her stomach; it’s all roiling acid, no good. “Don’t know about that.”

“Toast,” Zayn says, definitely. “Or my mum will never forgive me.”

“Okay,” she says.

He turns away from the eggs - in search of bread, presumably. She stops him with a hand on his chest before he can get too far, searching out his heartbeat with her palm. And there it is: steady, speeding up as she tilts her face towards him.

Zayn tastes like coffee and morning, and the rasp of his tongue shoots all the way through her.

“I like toast,” she says, pulling back a bit to meet his eyes. “It’s my favorite.” She presses a kiss against his cheek, the corner of his jaw. “So good. Could have it every day.” All that stress is turning into something else, something she can actually use.

His cheek creases up against her hand. “I’m the toast, right? Because if not -”

She kisses him again, and it’s a different kind - greedy, burning through her like diesel. Zayn makes a noise and pulls her closer, hand sneaking up her shirt to knead the bare skin of her back.

“You’re the toast,” she says, gulping for air. Zayn’s working his way down her neck, and it feels good enough that she might never be able to breathe again. Maybe she won’t need to, maybe they’ll immolate together -

“How much time do I have?” Zayn asks, backing her up against the table. Her bum hits the edge and it’s simple to boost herself the rest of the way.

Gemma touches his bottom lip with the edge of her thumb. There’s lots of ways to lay yourself bare, she knows, but most of it is just wanting to.

“As much time as you like,” she says. It’s a big offer, but today’s the day for it - go big or go home, after all. She doesn’t want to go home.

Zayn searches her eyes for a long moment, then smiles, broad and bright. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll take it.”

 

[ tumblr post :)](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/185700444163/pairing-zayngemma-words-19k-rating-e)


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